


As We Rage, Quietly

by amireal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES, PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES BECAUSE THE TAGS CAN BE MISLEADING BUT ALSO VERY RELEVANT, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Supernatural Elements, end of life decisions, suicidal leanings, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three types of SHIELD Agents. The kind who have a long and respected career but something prompts them to retire before they can no longer function in the real world. The kind who dies in the line of duty, protecting and defending something important. And the kind who simply drift away, slowly swallowed by the machine of SHIELD, eventually becoming nothing more than a ghost, a rumor of an agent that never left, never died, but was just subsumed by work.</p><p>Phil Coulson, in his tiredest thoughts, figured he'd be probably be a ghost, just not this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Clint

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I attempted to tag this as completely as possible, but I probably forgot some, please tell me.
> 
> 2\. I think the tags are slightly misleading about the subject matter, but if you're at all worried, I'll give more complete trigger warnings in the end notes.

The briefing is a last minute addition to Clint’s schedule. He frowns at the screen on his phone. Last minute meetings are never a good sign. He makes a note to recheck his equipment as soon as possible. Even when they say it’s not about a mission, it’s usually about a mission. When he gets there, just after lunch, he takes in the room’s occupants with a confused face. It’s an unusual mix. Hill, Sitwell, Blake, Woo, Hand, Carter, and Garrett are lined up along one side next to one or two high-level agents Clint vaguely knows because they are assigned to divisions that Clint rarely interacts with on that level. Natasha is off in a corner with Bobbi. Clint winces, but joins them anyway. Anything that gathers this many agents of rank is bound to suck.

Actually, Clint can’t think of any reason for this grouping. Even big ops wouldn’t have all these guys.

Fury is lurking in the background. Looking unhappy. And not his normal, “I will cut someone if they get between me and my information” unhappy, but serious grumpiness is floating over his head.

Coulson is next to him, looking uncomfortable. That’s… unusual. Coulson is a guy who can look comfortable in a three-piece suit in the desert.

There’s an unspoken signal that even Clint manages to notice and they all settle down. Coulson steps up to a podium. He looks pale and maybe a little… sweaty?

“Thank you,” Coulson starts. “Without further ado, two days ago I handed Director Fury my six months notice for retirement.”

It’s like the entire room gasps at once and Clint is having trouble finding the last molecules of oxygen to take in.

Coulson goes on. “Over the last two days, the director and I have made a list of the items my portfolio encompassed and sketched out the duties of the agent who will replace me. That being said, some of the items on the list will be redistributed. When I first took them on, it made sense for someone in my position, but years have passed and some of the internal structure of SHIELD has changed. What those two days have made painfully clear is that this organization is missing some much-needed structure.”

Clint translates that as “Director Fury got used to me being around and now he’s going to pay for it by having to replace me with three separate people.” Clint’s eyes remain focused on Coulson’s down-turned face. He’s been to enough of Coulson’s We Are All In This Together speeches to notice the difference. Coulson likes eye contact. This isn’t retirement, Clint’s almost certain of it. There’s something else going on.

Coulson’s hands shift something on the podium before he goes on. “While all agents should be valued and contribute their own unique stamp, no single agent should leave a hole too difficult to fill. To that end, my job will be divided up between two senior agents, one of whom will be promoted to Assistant Director, which brings the total number of ADs up to 14. We all know what that means.” He pauses while the entire room groans. Anyone over Level 5 remembers the last time SHIELD did a major restructure. It sucked. A lot. ”We’re going to need all of you in the next few months. Transitions are difficult, but I know this agency is capable of great things.”

The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur. Clint assumes if there’s anything he needs to do or know, someone will tell him. He suspects, however, that he and a handful of others are there just because it was easier to tell them all at once. If Clint didn’t know better, he’d accuse Coulson of being afraid.

The way Coulson ducks out of the room as soon as possible, Clint still might.


	2. Phil

**One Month Down**

 

Phil yawns wide enough to crack his jaw. There’s a line of tension all the way across his shoulders and down his back. He’s been awake for twenty hours and it’s starting to take its toll. Unfortunately, his usual pick-me-up method has slowly stopped being a viable option. He hasn’t tried it since the decision to talk to Nick, but he’s sure at this point it might take more out of him than he has to give and not return all that much for the the trouble. It’s not that he’s stopped feeding, but he needs the time for a full production number, not something quick and fumbly in the dark.

He’s going to have to tell Nick that the agents in training for the handover during emergencies like this need to speed up. Phil’s going to need them sooner rather than later, if only so that he can slip away for a nap now and then. They’re running silent at the moment and it’s going to be a chunk of time before Phil is actively needed. He rolls his neck and pulls his shoulders back and decides it’s not enough.

He signals for shift relief, and the low level noise of entire room seems to stop, leaving behind a funeral-like hush. Things like that have been happening with increasing frequency since the announcement as well. Phil is aware of the number of betting pools running: reasons for his retirement, who will replace him where, how they’ll move the transition over, how many times he blinks in an hour. That last one is Sitwell, because that asshole is a big troll who likes to try and lighten the mood. Phil appreciates it more when it’s not aimed at him.

As he finds his way back to his office, Natasha joins his long but slightly faltering strides a few steps out from his door.

“Something I can help you with?” he asks casually while the biometrics do their job. Natasha gives him a head tilt that’s remarkably expressive. Phil has been told that his own non-verbal communication is rich and full of commentary, but he has nothing on her.

She waits until his door is closed and Phil is clumsily removing his tie and jacket. He needs some rest and he’s relatively comfortable being casual in front of her. Once you’ve sewn up someone’s inner thigh, the mystery tends to vanish.

Natasha eyes him carefully. Phil slowly begins to feel self-conscious and fights the urge to fidget while he puts off lying down completely, as she continues to silently observe him. It’s an unusual feeling for him. His nature doesn’t really lend itself to that sort of awkwardness.

Finally, he rests his elbows on his knees and sighs. “Well?”

She scoots his visitor’s chair so that she’s eye to eye with him. “How long?”

Phil blinks. “What?”

“I recognize the pull,” she says slowly. “The Red Room’s education was… extensive.”

Fear flashes through him, stark and unforgiving. “There are lines, Agent,” snaps out. “And I don’t know what you think you’re—”

“It’s not me, I’d have noticed that, but it’s someone like me,” she says casually. “I can take a guess, but that’s not what I asked you.”

Phil’s jaw and eyes slam shut simultaneously. If his body has started to pull in any viable candidates, he needs to take precautions. Still, he can’t bring himself to say it. To give out the information he’s held close for decades. Longer. When he opens his eyes, she’s closer, leaning in carefully. Her eyes are… They’re sad and that’s the most touching thing that’s happened to him in a long time.

“Coulson,” she starts but stops and shakes her head. “Phil. How long?”

“A couple of months after my official exit date from SHIELD,” he says carefully. “I think. It’s not a well-documented phenomenon,” he finally admits. It’s not actual acknowledgment, but he won’t insult her by playing dumb.

“But you’re already feeling it?” she asks.

He nods. “For a while, but it seems I’ve hit the first major roadblock.”

The touch of her hand shocks him and he sucks in a deep breath.

“I would like to help,” Natasha says, her entire face softening into something he can’t read. “If I can feel the pull, then your usual food can’t be doing much for you at all.”

“It’s enough for a regular day,” Phil admits, “even a not so regular day, but this is…” He fades off. If he thinks about it too hard, the sadness that comes will hit too hard to fight. A body blow of fear and despair that he’s been dodging for a while already, because he knows when he finally gives in, he won’t come out the other side the same. It’s not like he wants to die. It’s just the only option he has left, the only one he can stomach actually. Short and painful or long and agonizing. Either way, his body is slowly wasting away in a demented form of scurvy. Phil stops himself before he meanders down through an ocean metaphor that would sicken even his own melancholy self.

Natasha’s fingers slide into his palm as she gracefully moves from touching him with her fingertips to holding his hand. His arm tingles with the affection and his head snaps up in shock. Casual touch, affection, it’s not what he needs normally, before. But now he needs different things, different emotions and satisfactions. His needs have changed, permanently. “Natasha,” he rasps, “I…”

“Did you really think I didn’t care for you?” she asks gently. “I take it as a compliment that your instincts find me an acceptable substitute for whoever it is.”

Phil smiles, thankful that she doesn’t guess or make knowing insinuations. It’s a relief. “I knew you preferred me on your ops, but that’s a far cry from this.” He squeezes her fingers. The tingle has slowly spread to his chest, warm and safe and gentle. It’s not a series of adjectives most people would apply to Natasha, and even Phil would admit that they aren’t the first ones that come to mind.

“You need sleep,” Natasha says, her whole face soft and determined. “Lie down. I’ll wedge myself in after you get comfortable.”

Phil is grateful she doesn’t suggest more, because he’s not sure he’d be able to say no and he’s sure he’d regret it after. She settles on top of him, warm and pliant and it’s like a tiny warm miracle curled up with him. Her hair brushes his nose and it smells of a familiar soap. Her arms wrap around him in a possessive hug that goes tight with emotion as her arms lock into place.

His whole body buzzes, now. Her affection, love, it really is love, platonic as it is, rubs over his raw nerves like cool satin.

“Thank you,” he whispers, a yawn rolling through his entire body.

Just as he’s about to drop off, he feels her chest vibrate with quiet words, and he barely catches them as he drifts off.

“I’ll miss you,” follows him down into sleep.

**Two Months Down**

There’s a rumor going around. Phil is impressed at how quickly it happened. It’s been noticed that they disappear with each other regularly now, in ways that a normal day’s work wouldn’t explain.

He’s apparently having a torrid affair with Natasha. His retirement is going to coincide with the birth of their illegitimate baby which he’s agreed to stay home and raise while Natasha continues with her career. He actually comes out pretty good in this one, though he has occasionally had to frown meaningfully at a handful of agents who seemed to have opinions on working mothers.

Honestly, stoking the rumor is the most fun he’s had in a while.

There was a scary moment when Clint first came back during the initial spread of the story. He stormed in and demanded answers of both of them. Phil nearly had a heart attack until Natasha calmly said, “Our love is eternal.”

Phil got control of himself and affected a bored tone, following it up with, “We fell in love over the warm glow of a knife being sharpened over a whetstone.”

Clint fell onto the couch next to Natasha and laughed his brains out. Phil had a hard time tearing his eyes away from the sight.

Now though, Clint watches them disappear from the room with a curious look in his eyes. Phil has started feeling those looks between his shoulder blades. It’s another late night, but nothing extreme. It seems, though, that Natasha has made it her responsibility to make sure that Phil is topped up on emotion just in case. He thinks it’s her subtle goodbye to him. It means a lot to him. He can see the strain around her eyes as she holds him close and tries to pretend nothing is wrong.

**Three Months Down**

“Is it really just a rumor?” Clint asks him quietly.

It’s too close to sunrise to call the hour late. It’s early, just too damn early. “It’s a rumor,” Phil says. “She’s getting a chunk of my espionage portfolio.” That much is true. She and Melinda have both been promised no reduction in field status or even a permanent transfer, but there’s no one who can take his place without a whole lot more training.

They’ll be handing it off over a longer period of time to an agent coming up through the proper channels -- Maria Hill. She _will_ be leaving the field for an official promotion and she deserves it, but currently she’s busting her ass completing a few prerequisites needed to be a SHIELD Assistant Director.

It’s not a new promotion, just fast-tracked. By three years.

“Oh.” Clint nods, taking in the information, his chest rising and falling in a deep breath.

Phil tries not to read too much into Clint’s apparent relief. Status quo can mean a lot to someone like Clint. Phil’s reflexes are slowly eroding, and with Clint it’s worse, because his body _wants_ so badly. Even at full health, he could never be sure that Clint’s interest would be genuine or simply egged on by Phil’s own mystical immune system.

**Four Months Down**

There’s a stitch in his side. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to be anywhere near this back alley, leaning heavily on chipped brick work, with the sour smells of a dark street corner turning his stomach. Phil’s arms are shaking and he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold them still long enough to shoot properly. His legs burn with fatigue and he wants nothing more than to start the day over again. Phil curses himself. No one who matters knows his current limitations. No one’s going to go looking for a long while. Probably long after Phil’s body forces him to find shelter someplace dangerous. Or worse, he’ll be forced to find food. Feeding during an operation, unless there was a catastrophic emergency, used to be a hard and fast _no_ , but he supposes slowly starving to death changes one’s priorities.

“Oh, thank god.”

Phil spins and nearly loses his footing. Clint. Clint who clasps his forearm in a grip hard enough to hurt and Phil has to bite his lip to stop the groan. It’s like tenderloin after months of Salisbury steak. Natasha definitely loves him and he loves her, but it’s a fraternal love. Five seconds of Clint, the thing his body is slowly changing to need exclusively, and the stitch in his side is gone, his legs feel steady, and he no longer fears for his aim.

“You know what, Barton? I’m actually happy to see you,” Phil says, sporting a smile he can’t hope to tamp down.

“Pshaw.” Clint winks. “Everyone is always happy to see me.”

**Five Months Down**

Phil’s finally ceding the largest chunk of his portfolio and it’s not coming a day too soon. His morning alarm is now the bane of his existence -- a piercing scream into a fog of sleep that’s never quite enough. He’s so tired. Almost too tired to maintain his full glamour at the same time he’s holding down his body’s emergency signal. He’s not giving it what it wants, so it’s seeking out people who come closest -- poor substitutes that Phil is living on. Substitutes he must not lure in without intending to. 

It’d be suspicious as hell, among other things. Also, the active Lure is something he’s never been too comfortable with in the first place. So all of his energy goes into that. He’s started to carry around a tube of the high-end concealer the undercover department uses. His eyes have permanent black smudges under them now.

No more late nights. No more big emergencies. He can’t do those and manage the rest of his job. It leaves him with too much time inside of his head. He no longer has to keep track of a dozen or so things at a time, so his mind wanders to the inevitable. It’s harder to pretend he’s not preparing for the end of his life. For a handful of months and a lingering death. He’s got his lawyer set up for for later this week. It’s an appointment that leaves a hard pit in his stomach.

Phil guesses denial is finally ebbing away. Just on time to be too tired to be angry.

In reality, anger hits the morning of his appointment. He trashes his home office. There’s nothing important left there anyway. He manages to stay away from the computer, because he’ll need that for a while yet. But there’s a lot of damage to the walls and furniture.

He’s lived too long and experienced too many amazing things to deny completely the possible existence of a being as powerful as a god, even the god most of the mortal world believes in. But Phil has spent a long time refusing to bargain and it appears he’ll die that way too. That’s okay with him.

An hour after he signs the final paperwork in his lawyer’s office, leaving everything to Clint and Natasha, with a few special bequests to Nick, Maria, and Jasper, depression covers him like a thick blanket. He welcomes it with open arms.

**Six Months Down**

There’s a party. It has cake and stupid hats and gifts. It’s the gifts that make it hard for Phil. Because they all say the same thing. That he’s supposed to be there to use them six months down the line. The only way he can keep moving is to promise himself he’ll find homes for all of these things later.

The watch with matching tie pin and cuff links hurts the most. He really wants to wear them. It’s obvious the set has been picked carefully and with love. There’s a spark of it when his fingers trace the face of the watch, it relieves a mild ache in his shoulder. A lot of care lives in these inanimate objects. His eyes prickle a little.

Natasha has been spending the night at his place for the last few days. She’d simply followed him home one evening sometime last week. Phil wonders what it was that day that signaled the need for more than he was getting. But now, it’s the only thing keeping him upright. The transition from capable at his job, if only by his fingertips, to very obviously ill is still startling to him. He’s not ready for it to be over yet. Still, he’s looking forward, in a dark sort of way, to waking up and not needing to expend useless energy putting on a suit.

Nick makes a toast and that bastard doesn’t leave a dry eye in the place. Phil is officially going to spend some time working out how to get him back for that. He tries to thank him for the gift, after. While everyone chipped in, Phil assumes Nick did the shopping.

“That was Barton,” Nick says gruffly and then knocks against Phil’s shoulder as he walks away.

Phil sucks in a breath. He forgets Nick has feelings like normal people sometimes. It warms him that his instincts have put Nick, Natasha, and Clint in the same boat. Even if the idea of sleeping with Nick Fury makes even the incubus inside Phil shrivel up in Do Not Want. Phil smiles at the mental image. He should put that in the letter he’s going to write.

The letters are his next project. To say goodbye, to explain to a handful of people who should know. To explain the carefully doctored medical files that will be available. Pancreatic cancer is what he finally chose. He’s not proud of it, usurping a real and terrible disease for this, but it’s better than a widespread telling of the truth. More believable, too.

When he gets home, his last cardboard box of office stuff is clutched in his hands. His focus keeps drifting to his retirement gift that’s resting square in the center. It’s poking up just high enough over the lip of the box that he can see his fingerprints crushed into the expensive velvet wrapped around the the surprisingly solid case. He once again mourns never being able to enjoy the contents of that case.

Once inside his place, he closes his door and leans against it tiredly. His eyes close shut almost automatically in exhaustion as he lets go of it all. Everything he’s been holding in and onto for what feels like forever at this point is released. No more need to hold in his body’s distress signal or the little bits of his glamour that he can still maintain. It feels like a weight is lifted off Phil’s shoulders, precious energy he no longer has to waste isn’t leaking out anymore.

When he opens his eyes back up, he spies a sealed packet on his coffee table. It doesn’t concern him too much; most of the poaching eased off a few weeks ago, finally. Once the intelligence community realized he was jumping ship, they all tried to offer him parachutes. From both sides of the aisle. You haven’t lived until AIM has given you the hard sell. Though there were fewer weapons than Phil had expected.

There’s a post-it on top, saying simply “Asshole.” He smiles at it. Nick has a way with words. Phil breaks the faux wax security seal gently and examines the papers that spill out. It’s his exit package. Phil blinks away some emotion gathering in the corners of his eyes. It’s more than an exit package. It’s a work of art. Phil has to sit down. It’s not his HR paperwork, it’s… everything.

Phil has been saving the last of the set up for his death for his post-SHIELD life. One last op to put together. Something to keep him occupied. Nick’s taken most of it out of his hands and Phil can’t even bring himself to be mad about it. The care needed to put this together chokes him up a little. The papers tell him there’s a warehouse with the physical detritus waiting and a small flash drive, the size of his thumb, that just needs a computer with an Internet connection and his modified medical records will start to percolate through the correct databases. All that’s left is to carefully lay out the props for this little play all over his apartment.

As a gesture, it’s the most loving thing Nick has ever done for him and Phil appreciates it more than he could probably ever express. He’s briefly relieved that Nick cares enough to give Phil this moment in private. It also resolves the nagging worry that he no longer has the energy to do as good a job as he needs to on his own. Especially now that Natasha won’t be showing up to curl around him at night. He aches a little inside at the thought. Through this whole thing, he’s managed to ignore the growing ache of loneliness, but he’s got nothing left now.

Clint. The first time he showed up with a fresh ring on his finger, a dull shine and Clint’s natural finger fidgeting drawing attention to it over and over again, Phil knew he was in trouble. If he’d acted then, he might have saved himself, but his nature, his instincts, all screamed to stay. And part of him believed that it wasn’t possible. His kind don’t often die of starvation. It’s rare. Even precious. It means they’ve found something most incubi don’t: love. Even if it’s not returned, it’s considered an incredible honor granted by the earth.

Phil feels his lips twist into a wry smile. He understands that line of thinking, but that doesn’t mean he’s not angry about it. And sad. And tired. He shuffles the paperwork into a neat pile to go through more thoroughly tomorrow, after about fifteen hours of sleep. That’s when the a string of numbers catches his eye and his breath. “Oh Nick, you asshole,” he breathes, unconsciously echoing Nick's form address on the envelope.

Phil’s retirement, while sudden and early, didn’t require the extra paperwork needed of someone leaving before their twenty years. SHIELD isn’t the military, but it keeps some of the same pay and HR structures. Including combat pay and time accrual. Phil’s 20 years officially rolled over around 9 years ago, at least according to his current file, which means his pension pay out _should_ have started with a full 1/2 of his regular paycheck. Each year he stuck in and contributed raised it something like .05 percent. He can’t remember the details just now.

Except that his first statement as a retired agent tells another story. It’s his full paycheck. Right down to the last cent. Somehow, and if Phil had more energy he’d work out the exact classification needed to achieve this, Nick has moved him into a category of both pensioner and full-time agent. Phil thinks that makes him technically one of the consultant specialists, but Phil suspects his contact information will be suspiciously absent from the database if someone investigates. Nick probably put one of the eccentric security clearances on his entire file, which would be enough explanation for most surface curiosities.

Normally, within a few years, that kind of abuse would be caught, but Phil isn’t going to be around long enough to use even a tenth of his deserved pension. Six months from now, his file will quietly go from retired to inactive and the money will stop and no one will raise an eyebrow because it won’t eventually add up to a suspicious number.

He thinks about refusing the gesture, briefly, but then changes his mind. His selfless reflex can only hold on for so long and… Clint… He let go of Clint. Damnit if he’s not going to accept the ability to shift completely to take out when he’s finally too tired to cook or even make sandwiches. It feels good to be selfish, however briefly.

Thanks to SHIELD’s ability to decimate social lives, his savings is pretty flush. Some agents gravitate towards expensive hobbies, the kind that can be practiced anywhere, or don’t require more than a few free moments a day. Or can live with only having a handful of hours every few weeks. Car and motorcycle restoration is a big one. Photography picked up once the digital age really swept in. Dark rooms take time and they can’t pause for a mission the same way Photoshop can. Despite rumors, Phil didn’t need to spend a chunk of cash on his cards; he bought most of them from the store himself decades ago. Still, something about being ninety years old, unconsciously brainwashing people to think he looks forty-five, but can blink into his twenties without any effort, makes him more patient than most.

Also, his hobby used to be sex. But you can’t really talk to people about that. Or at least, Agent Coulson couldn’t. Phil has had some in depth discussions with Nick and Maria. Even Jasper, though nothing too out there for him; he just thinks Phil is a guy with great game. He attributes it to Phil’s success in his undercover skills. Natasha, too, in more recent months.

With Clint he liked to pull some sexual truth out like a special surprise sex bomb that usually left him speechless in Phil’s ear until he gathered enough wits to question the veracity of Phil’s statement.

He likes the thought that Clint might find something useful out of his bank accounts. Phil has seen the way a person can linger far longer than anyone ever expects, so he’s glad his savings are safe. If he’s still alive in a year, he’ll reconsider.

Phil finishes putting the papers away, suddenly feeling the empty stretch of time before him. He wonders if there’s enough time to find a new hobby. Something easy that requires minimal effort and time. Truthfully, he misses sex. The feeling of closeness it can create between two (or more) beings, even if only for a few minutes. He misses the lead up, prepping and coiffing, finding someone who sets his skin abuzz, the slow circling of wants as they carefully pull out what they want from each other. That first breath after coming, deep and panting at the same time. The way they slump bonelessly against one another, the feeling of relaxation when the endorphins marinate his body. All of it. It’s been two weeks since it stopped feeding him completely. Since he’s had the energy to even try. That’s the longest he’s gone without at least an orgasm since puberty.

With a sigh, Phil hoists himself off his couch and shuffles into the bedroom. There’s a permanence to the removal of his suit this time, the last time. Something makes him go slowly, be gentle with the buttons and lay each piece out with exaggerated care. It needs to be sent out to be cleaned so it can be put away one final time. He strokes his fingers down the fine weave and sighs. Maybe he did have a hobby other than sex: clothes. It’s not uncommon with his people. His mother’s jewelry collection was an endless shiny fascination for him as a child.

Phil celebrates the first day of the rest of his life with a huge order of Chinese from his favorite local place. He slides on sweat pants and a t-shirt but skips the socks and starts prioritizing his unwatched media while he waits. When someone knocks on his door forty minutes later he’s not expecting Natasha to be leaning on his door jamb, a large plastic bag dangling effortlessly from her fingers. It’s impressive because she’s got it by the the tips and the thing must weigh 15 pounds at least. There’s a lot of soup in his order.

“You owe me $40,” she says casually, sweeping in just as elegantly in her jeans and hoodie as she would in heels and a cocktail dress. He spends a few seconds being grateful that she asks to be paid back and doesn’t start some sort of food pity party.

Phil gets his wallet out and frowns as he hands her two twenties. “I thought we discussed this?” Discussion is an embellishment. He’d thanked her after the last time and explained that after his last day, he’s not expecting any more help. At this point, it probably would make very little difference in the long run.

She rips the money out of his hands. “Shut up, Phil.” Her hands are shaking as they crumple the bills and shove them into her jeans pocket.

Oh. Phil blinks. He’s been forgetting that there are other people in this, mostly because it just makes him feel worse. “Yes ma’am,” he says with a shaky voice and starts to unpack the food, wordlessly offering her the second set of disposable chopsticks.

Her smile is slight and unsteady, but she reaches for the dumplings without any further discussion.


	3. Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to thank my beta Selori! Thank you and I'm SOSOSORRY. Ahem.
> 
> As usual, please mind the tags!

**Six Months and Two Weeks**

Clint fidgets in the subway, he fidgets in lobby, he fidgets in the elevator, and he fidgets outside of Phil’s door. He’s here because he misses Phil. Actually he’s been missing him for a while. During his wind down from SHIELD, Phil’s duties shrank steadily, and so their professional interactions dwindled at the same rate. At first, Clint made an effort to visit Phil’s couch, as he liked to say, but Phil’s office spent more and more time locked or empty as Phil’s career slowly ground to a halt.

Clint has been back in town from his first official mission for a Phil-less SHIELD for a couple of days, and he’s managed to hold off as long as he can. He tries to ring the doorbell three or four times before his waffling is interrupted by the elevator depositing a guy in a delivery outfit.

“The red head out of town?” he asks, walking up to Clint like someone hovering outside the door is a regular occurrence.

“Actually, yeah,” Clint answers. “She is.” Nat’s been gone since the day before he got back. She’s gonna be super busy for a few more months thanks to Phil’s retirement. There's a file in his bag that she left in his inbox. Clint is pretty sure it was her way of telling him to visit. He pays the delivery guy and adds in a generous tip. Phil is the type of guy who has an army of loyal delivery folks follow him from apartment to apartment because he believes in positive reinforcement.

It's obvious when Phil opens the door that he's not expecting Clint. Phil's eyes go wide and his mouth actually gapes before he shuts his eyes and bangs his head against the open door. "Goddamnit, Natasha."

"Hey," Clint says, insulted on her behalf. "I was gonna get here eventually." It's said by rote, because Phil looks... well, he looks bad. Phil has always been pale unless there’s a mission near the equator, in which case he’s a walking freckle, but now he's positively paper white. Clint can now easily make out the network of veins leading in and out of Phil’s elbows and the pastiness only enhances the deep circles under his eyes. Clint realizes what he first took as a casual lean is probably closer to support. Phil's hair is sleep mussed and he's not even in casual wear, but in pajamas' closest approximation to daytime clothes.

The last time Phil looked like this was the poisoning incident that Clint doesn't like to think about too much.

Phil opens his eyes and gives Clint a flat glare, ignoring the stupid look Clint must have on his face. "Uh-huh. Come on, the food's getting cold."

Clint steps inside and freezes, his heart sinking with confirmation. Medical debris is scattered around the apartment; oh, it's neatly incorporated, but it's also everywhere. This is one of the fears Clint was harboring for months. "Jesus, Phil," he says, his voice barely a whisper.

Behind him, Phil shuts the door with a quiet click. "It's my choice," Phil says firmly despite the waver in his tone.

Clint puts the food down on the nearest surface (the coffee table) and turns to get a second look at Phil. This time he sees the weight loss. It's not huge, yet, Clint guesses. But it's enough to loosen the clothes that Phil probably originally bought when he was healthy. It's enough to make his skin hang a bit too loose in a few places. It's enough for Clint's chest to seize up in unhappiness. "And your friends? We don't get to say goodbye?" Clint doesn't mean to put that much anger into it, but he's a little out of control at the moment.

Phil's tilts his head and his eyes soften. "We did. The way I wanted to."

Clint wraps his arms around himself and bites back a sharp retort. It might feel unfair to him, but Phil gets to make that decision, he supposes. Even if Clint thinks it sucks. He remembers the goodbye party, how long it had been. How lavish and... oh, the gift. Clint realizes Phil will probably never wear it now. For some reason that makes all of this much more painful.

"Phil," he says, ragged and not quite holding on to his feelings. There's a light touch on his arm and Clint grabs at Phil's hand and holds it tight. Phil gasps, but doesn't pull back. He's not sure what that means, but he loosens his hold just in case Phil's symptoms are pressure sensitivity or easy bruising or something equally horrifying to contemplate. He tries to rein it in, but he feels like he's been shot in the chest.

After what seems like endless moments of indecision, Clint gives in and gently gathers Phil into a hug, pressing his face tightly into Phil's shoulder. All of this just makes the last six months worse, all of that time letting Phil be busy, figuring that later, when it was all done, there'd be time. Clint had plans, nothing big or complicated, he's learned better by now, but he was holding on to the idea that they could be friends. Maybe even--- Clint viciously cuts off that train of thought.

Phil's hug feels weird, but Clint mostly attributes that to the muscle mass he assumes Phil has lost. Eventually, Phil directs them both to the couch, where he silently divvies up the take out and offers Clint a plate. They don't talk about it again, but if Clint sometimes chokes up, or wipes his eyes, Phil just nudges the tissues in Clint's direction.

Eventually, Clint gives in and admits he’s watching Phil more than the TV. He watches as Phil’s eyes flutter closed and open again as he fights the heavy drag of sleep. But eventually he loses and slowly Phil’s body relaxes into sleep. Except as Clint watches, Phil’s face and body don’t seem to relax into the slump of slumber. Instead he seems to slide into something tense and unhappy. Even in sleep, Phil seems to be fighting against whatever it is that’s attacking him.

It picks at that wound in Clint’s chest, and the urge to do something, anything, digs in deep. It’s a fight to keep breathing evenly; a healthy Phil would have picked up on that shift in his surroundings in a heartbeat, even while asleep. He looks too exhausted for Clint to want to risk waking him up, even if it’s not the most restful of sleeps. Instead, Clint settles on tucking the blanket resting loose and open on Phil’s legs further up on his body.

Phil sighs as Clint leans close, something loosening on his face. Clint freezes, trying to figure out what he did, because he wants to keep doing it, but the moment passes and he’s got no clue what it was. Phil is scrunched up on his two-thirds of the couch, so Clint gently coaxes his legs and feet until they’re laying comfortably in Clint’s lap. Phil makes a noise after Clint finishes, but he doesn’t wake up. Instead he scratches his nose and snuggles deeper in his pillow, the lines on his face smoothing out a bit more.

Two hours later, Phil hasn’t moved at all except for minor twitches. Clint reluctantly decides he has to go. He doesn’t want to. What he wants is to stay, for as long as it… takes. He fights his instincts and admits to himself that it’s not a decision he can just make. He has to talk to Phil about it; he has to talk to _himself_ about it, as corny as that sounds.

So instead of digging in and then feigning surprise when he “wakes up” in the morning next to Phil, he gently shakes Phil’s ankle. “Hey, Phil? I need to get going.”

At first it doesn’t look like he’s getting through, but slowly Phil starts to move. His toes wiggle and then his feet stretch, and so on until he manages to pull up his heavy eyelids. Clint thinks maybe the nap did some good. The dark slashes under Phil’s eyes seem lighter. As Phil’s eyes finally focus on him, a wave of something intense and sad shudders through Clint that leaves him shaky and confused.

“Sorry,” Phil says, voice rusty with sleep. “Didn’t mean to nap the whole time.”

Clint bites back everything he wants to say, about how if that’s all he gets, that’s fine with him. It’s more intimate and more personal than he ever expected, this moment between them. He’s actually honored that Phil would let him see him this unguarded instead of gently, but firmly, escorting him out minutes after he arrived. He’s seen Phil do that before. It’s both a thing of beauty and so well executed you don’t realize it’s happened until it’s done. But that didn’t happen.

“No worries,” Clint says when he finally finds his voice. His face is screwed up in what he hopes is an approximation of smile. “It was fun, like Bogota.”

Phil snorts softly and rolls his eyes. Bogota was thirteen agents infected with mono. They got the meds, but no backup. It was, as Clint liked to refer to it, the nap fest from hell. Actually at the time, he called it The Orgy That Never Was. Because come on, they caught a _kissing disease_. Sitwell and Garrett conspired to put up banners and have a large group of agents to applaud the returning sick agents as they stumbled down the ramps. He thanks god every day that SHIELD’s science division is routinely ten years ahead of civilian medicine. None of them wanted to be down for six to twelve months.

Phil shuffles to an upright position, seeming to gather himself before standing. Clint frowns and pops up when it becomes clear that something didn’t go the way Phil was expecting. “Over-balanced,” Phil says with a confused look on his face before something seems to occur to him but he chooses not to share.

Clint doesn’t want to leave - the idea makes him ache with wrongness - but he reminds himself again that now isn’t the time to bring it up. So Clint takes a deep breath and squeezes Phil’s arm gently. He wants to try a hug again, but holds back. At the door, Clint squares his shoulders. “I’m coming back.” He tries to make it sound definite. No questions, no invitations, just a fact.

Phil gives him a complicated look but doesn’t say no.

**Six Months + Four weeks**

They’ve settled on a routine. Tuesdays and Fridays. Natasha must find out somehow, but it’s not Clint that tells her. Because even after she gets back, she doesn’t appear on “his nights.” Phil must have communicated it. Clint knows she still visits; there’s evidence throughout the apartment and she does pass messages through to him on Clint’s days.

They don’t do much. Clint shows up with food. They pop in something to watch. Talk in low, private voices, about a wide variety of things. Clint thought he knew Phil before, and he did, but not like this. Each tidbit that comes out of Phil’s mouth Clint drinks up and tries to memorize.

There are details about the Howling Commandos and how they shaped a young Phil Coulson’s life. There are reasons about why Phil is a stealth Democrat and firmly believes in social programs like welfare and Medicaid. There are movies and TV shows and books, all of which Clint carefully documents for later. He wants to devour it all and then ask Phil all about it. In detail. But time is fleeting and Clint gets maybe two hours before Phil is asleep, his breathing deep and even. Clint can’t bring himself to wake Phil up once it happens. It’s obvious he needs the rest.

Once he’s out, Clint opens up the most recent book or puts on the movie Phil had been expounding on. For the first time in decades, Clint has homework that’s not job-related and he loves it.

**Six Months + Six weeks**

“You don’t have to buy it,” Phil says as Clint gets out his phone to type in the name of a book they were discussing.

Clint shrugs. “No, it sounds interesting.”

“I meant,” Phil’s voice wavers in that way Clint has gotten used to, and wasn’t that the worst of it? Phil Coulson’s voice is no longer a steady rock. “I meant that it’s all going to you anyway. Go ahead and take the one off my shelf.”

The phone drops from Clint’s numb fingers and he only vaguely thanks the case protecting it from shattering on the hard surface of the floor. “What?”

Phil licks his seemingly permanently chapped lips. “I wasn’t going to tell you at first, but I thought it might be better if you had some time to get used to it.” While he says it, he pushes to his feet unsteadily. He shuffles to the bookshelf, grabs a book, barely needing to look for it, and shuffles back to the couch. Phil then sits down in his new, overly cautious way and gently tosses the book in Clint’s direction. “Here,” he says as it lands squarely between them on the empty middle cushion. “I’m glad for you to have it.”

Clint stares at the book, unable to even reach for it for long seconds. In their time spent together, Clint has purposefully not asked about what it is that’s killing his friend. Even thinking about it makes his head ache and his chest tight. His eyes have caught long, complicated names off pill bottles and IV bags, but he’s avoided Googling or even writing them down for a time when he might want or need to know.

Instead he chooses to live in darkness about it. He’s sure it’ll come out at the funeral.

God, a funeral. He’s not sure he’ll be able to handle that.

“Hey,” Phil says softly. He’s shifted closer, fingers reaching out to touch Clint’s face. “It’s okay.”

That’s when Clint realizes there are tears streaming down his face and that Phil has used his shaky hand to wipe away the first batch. “It’s not,” he chokes out, reaching for Phil’s wet fingertips, pulling them close, pressing them to his cheek. “It’s really not.”

Phil doesn’t try to comfort him, he just lets Clint work through everything that’s going on in his head, all the while letting Clint hang on to his hand. He resists pulling Phil into a hug by inches. It’s an action he’s wanted to repeat since the first one, but it always seemed to be something that Phil wasn’t comfortable with. He does come to a decision, finally, about a question that’s been plaguing him since the beginning. “Let me move in?” He spits it out with his eyes still closed.

Phil doesn’t say anything at first. It makes Clint open his eyes and then blink them rapidly to clear his vision a bit. Phil has gone so pale he’s almost translucent. The hand being held by Clint twitches and shakes hard, but that’s not what worries Clint the most. What worries Clint the most is the fear in Phil’s eyes. No, not fear, terror. Agonizing terror. Slowly morphing into horror.

Clint blinks harder, sniffing deeply to prevent his nose from interrupting whatever is happening right now. “Phil?”

Phil clears his throat, then clears it again. “That’s a kind… gesture,” Phil’s voice wavers even more than it has been, “and I appreciate the offer, but I have to decline.”

He wants to argue, to fight and beg and plead, but there’s something in Phil’s face, in the formality of his words that makes Clint back down. “Okay,” he says in a small voice. “Okay.”

**Six Months + Eight and Ten Weeks**

Clint spends the next few visits exhausting himself by swallowing it all down again. Now that he’s asked that first question, he’s got a million more, all of them large and scary. Why? When? How? The first five minutes or so of every visit he can’t stop his eyes taking in every new detail, desperately looking for new lines, darker circles, slower movements as Phil shuffles around his apartment. He thinks whatever is wrong, it’s been relatively steady. Maybe Phil has years but has simply put his affairs in order because he’s that kind of guy.

Maybe he has days and is sparing Clint the knowledge.

Phil just seems so… static. Always slow, always unsteady, always tired and shaky, but never more than infinitesimally more than the last time. Their routine remains stable after Clint’s blurted-out question, for which he’s thankful. Phil answers the door in some iteration of his new wardrobe. Soft-looking pants in one of a handful of dark colors, a matching t-shirt, looking equally soft, but never white, his feet stuffed into what look like lambskin slippers. After he gets over how weird it is to see Phil so casual, right down to his footwear, they’re weirdly a comfort to Clint. With Phil’s uneven gait, traction on the bottom of his feet rather than cotton socks seems like a good idea.

They always share food and watch a movie or some TV and then talk quietly until Phil slowly slips into a nap. Sometimes Phil even wakes up on his own, without Clint gently shaking him. He likes those days the best.

Clint begins to miss him on the days in between. It’s not a new feeling, but their new relationship makes him feel it more keenly. There was always an idle thought in the back of his head, that without work, they’d have nothing to talk about. Especially now that Clint thinks his security clearance might be higher than Phil’s. And isn’t that a head trip? However, it turns out to be a non-issue.

He does a decent job of keeping it to himself, though his eyes linger more and more on the medical equipment and his mind on the one subject neither of them want to talk about. He’s not an idiot; with as much time as he’s spent inside hospitals and medical wards, he knows what some of it is for, but he’s still working very hard not to find out more. Phil seems to have drawn hard lines and Clint is trying to respect that.

Until a mission has him miss a visit.

Clint bounces on his feet outside of Phil’s door. It feels like forever before he can hear the locks disengage. When he gets his first good look at Phil, he realizes that maybe he wasn’t impatient but that it really took longer than normal for Phil to get to the door.

There’s a pallor on Phil’s face that’s decidedly sick and a visible tremor that seems two or three times worse than the last time Clint saw it. “Phil,” the word is practically forced out of his chest, “sit down, please.” After he blurted out his question, he was afraid to offer up a compromise of having a key to the apartment, just in case. Clint’s not sure how much that basic rejection would hurt, so he put it off. He resolves to ask about it, soon.

“I’m fine,” Phil says, but he’s already turning back to the couch. It gives Clint an excellent view of the weight he’s lost in recent days.

“You are not.” Clint follows him in. It seems like the words have finally broken through the dam.

“It’s okay,” Phil insists. “Just slept weird.”

“It’s not okay,” Clint rasps, emotion choking him. Fear, anger, hatred… love. He takes his spot on the sofa, legs practically buckling. “It’s really not okay, Phil.”

“Clint,” Phil sighs, keeping upright instead of settling into corner, “I know we haven’t… spoken about what’s happening, but you need to understand that it _is_ happen—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Clint asks, voice raised in anger and desperation. “God, Phil, I’m losing you by inches here and you’re trying to tell me, what? That I can’t be sad? Or angry? What? You’re my friend, I—” Clint snaps his jaw shut, hugging his chest tightly.

Phil’s eyes are wide. There’s emotion in their depths, the same swirling mixture of something that Clint can’t quite interpret. Phil licks his lips and clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice shaken, “I guess I forget that—”

“I love you,” Clint blurts and then cringes.

Phil blinks at him dumbly.

“I didn’t actually mean to say that out loud,” Clint says miserably. His heartbeat is deafening in his ears and Phil seems to be frozen in shock, so he swallows his pride and goes on. 

“I think about my mom sometimes,” Clint starts in a low voice, “about the last few minutes of her life, about what that might’ve been like. I tracked down the police report after I joined SHIELD.”

“I know,” Phil says softly, almost absently, still looking shocked.

Clint smiles slightly. He was pretty sure Phil knew within minutes of Clint’s request for information.

“She was alive for a while,” Clint goes on carefully.

“I know,” Phil says again, like he’s caught in a loop. Clint has never seen him this off. He doesn’t know if it’s his illness or Clint’s mouth.

“And I think about my dad.” Clint’s having a hard time talking, like he can’t get enough breath in his lungs. “I think about if in his last few minutes, he was still that selfish guy. If my mom died without being told she was loved. If she sat there with the person who was supposed to— love her—” Clint hiccups over the phrase. “If she died knowing, for sure, that she was loved.”

“I—” Phil blinks and a single tear is pushed out. “I. Clint.”

“Because I— Phil I, do you think it’s pity? Is that it? It’s not. I love you and I can’t stand the thought of you… of you…” Clint gently cups Phil’s cheek, ignoring the extra stubble that’s there, like Phil hasn’t had the energy to shave, and strokes Phil’s skin lightly with his thumb. “I love you and I don’t need you to… I don’t expect you to do anything, but if you’re gonna d-die,” Clint hiccups out a sob, “then you deserve to know you matter to someone, that you are loved. I _need_ you to know that.”

Phil’s hand rises to cover Clint’s hand on his cheek, but he doesn’t say anything, he just closes his eyes and presses Clint’s hand in more firmly. “Clint,” he rasps, “you are amazing.”

It’s not much of an opening, but Clint’ll take it. While not immediately repulsed, Phil hasn’t given him much indication either way about his feelings on the matter. It doesn’t stop Clint from taking his free arm and sliding it gently around Phil’s waist before leaning in and kissing Phil’s forehead, feeling the slight temperature against his lips. Phil’s hand tightens around Clint’s and it’s enough to convince him to stay there for a few uneven breaths before ending it and letting his head rest gently against Phil’s.

What he wants is to pull Phil to him, to hold him like something precious, careful but secure as they both break down, but Phil’s body language has been broadcasting “keep away” for weeks, months even. Standoffish as Phil was as an agent, Clint marvels at how much more of a “do not touch” vibe a sick Phil Coulson can give off. Clint has tried to respect that, but he’s only human and if, after this, Phil asks him to leave and never come back, Clint will understand.

They both seem unwilling, or unable, to move. Clint spends his time savoring the points of contact between them. The hand cupping Phil’s cheek can feel the rapid fluttering of his pulse with its pinky; it’s high and thready and instantly Clint regrets putting this kind of strain on Phil.

Finally Phil seems to gather some momentum. He squeezes Clint’s hand again and then his head moves, not a lot, just enough; it tilts and slides and then there are rough lips touching his own and Clint swallows a groan. The kiss is slow and deep and Phil tastes faintly of medicine and Chinese takeout, but Clint doesn’t care because it’s perfect, so very perfect. When he tastes salt, Clint worries briefly about Phil but he quickly realizes that it’s tears, not blood, that he’s tasting. They’re both crying.

After one or two natural lulls for breathing and minute shifting of position, the kiss ends softly and they return to letting their foreheads rest gently against each other.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says softly.

“It’s not your fault.” Clint strokes the closest bit of paper-dry skin and ignores Phil’s slightly hysterical chuckle. Its been an emotional day. “I don’t know how I held it in this long.”

Something in Phil closes down. He doesn’t pull away, but there’s a lightness that disappears. “Let’s watch that movie.”

This time, Phil curls up next to Clint, his head on Clint’s shoulder, an arm flung carelessly across Clint’s chest. Something unwinds inside Clint. Yeah, he thinks, this is how it should be. He still wants to gather Phil completely up into his arms, but Phil seems to need to run the show and that’s fine with Clint. This time, Phil doesn’t nap. In fact, he’s particularly awake, his hand spending the whole time drawing slow circles where it rests on Clint’s body. Maybe mapping it in his own lazy way. At the end of the night, Phil follows Clint to the door and Clint takes that as permission.

They kiss again, slow and steady, and Clint’s head and chest feel lighter than they’ve been for weeks. Phil’s imminent mortality still makes him ache inside, but having had this first, having been able to tell Phil that he doesn’t have to die alone, it soothes him.

“Goodbye,” Phil says to him, hands lingering on Clint’s waist. “And thank you.”

Clint smiles, easy and carefree. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Phil nods.

Clint is still smiling when he gets home. He smiles through his bedtime routine and he smiles in bed as he fall asleep. He wakes up smiling, his alarm not even a little annoying today. He feels free and easy and just so glad he blurted it all out. In a few days, the reality of it will set in. He’s on borrowed time, even more so than before, because it will all seem to go by that much faster now.

Still, his mood doesn’t really sink until he slides into his morning briefing, when he’s handed a file too thick for an in and out. He flips to the first page and skims the mission timeline. Four to six weeks.

His stomach drops to his toes and something cold and slimy seems to run down his spine. His time has just been taken from him all over again. Shit.


	4. Phil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that the tags are on this fic for a reason. The endnotes go into more detail. As always, if I've forgotten a tag, please let me know.

**Six Months + One Week**

Phil briefly worries that Natasha’s continued visits will keep his slow down to the same gentle trickle as before, but it seems like his body knows it no longer has to be ready for work now that he’s officially retired. His first morning includes a dizzy spell when he gets out of bed too fast and her quiet but comforting presence doesn’t do much to change it. It’s a little bit of a relief. Which just makes him feel guilty.

It’s hard to admit he needs help. The turnover from feeling like shit but still able bodied to feeling like shit and unable to stand or move too quickly without a dizzy spell is so fast it’s hard to adjust his expectations. It takes two days to get the courage to bring up what he needs with her, but she figures it out before he manages to force more than a handful of sentences out.

The next day she arrives with a bunch of moving men, contracted through a medical subdivision of SHIELD. Nick stored his gift in an actual medical warehouse, thank god. Phil sits on his couch and watches his apartment fill up with the accessories for the rest of his life. When they’re done, Natasha dons a tool belt and adds things like grab bars to his bathroom and bedroom. She changes some of his faucet fixtures to easier-to-grasp handles and makes a half dozen or so other minor changes he doesn’t know about until he stumbles over them later.

He waits until she leaves for the evening to go through the boxes of medications. It looks like Nick stocked him up for a year. He sits carefully down in the chair that now resides permanently in his kitchen. There’s someplace to rest situated in regular intervals through his entire place now. Has been for a while. He labels the boxes in the refrigerator first before moving onto the carefully stacked boxes next to it.

It takes some reading of the accompanying literature for Phil to understand exactly what Nick left him with. SHIELD knows more about aliens and supernatural beings than they let on most of the time. There are apparently common blood markers in his supernatural phyla. Common blood markers and common protein and amino acids that are needed to survive. Ideally, he feeds his body the base components and it can make what it needs to order. Except Phil hasn’t been getting what his body now craves. It’s not a cure, or even a long term solution, but it will give him some leverage with his own body. His aura and pull are out of control. He can hold it for short periods of time, but it’s exhausting.

There’s a brief moment where he wonders if these medications might help with severe injuries, but he lets go of that thought when he remembers that sort of speculation is no longer his job.

Phil gives himself his first dosage that night. Fifteen minutes later it’s like a knot releases and suddenly his control is back, at least a little. He bets sleep will be slightly easier, too.

It takes him a few days to completely catalog every bottle of pills, injectable liquid, and IV bag. There are specially formulated vitamins, top secret immune boosters (he’d rather not die of pneumonia, thank you very much), a selection of muscle relaxers, anxiety relief, antidepressants, and sleep aids. Little things that are the medication equivalent of comfort food. It makes him smile.

There’s even an entire box of narcotic pain killers, subdivided into monthly portions. It’s vicodin -- percocet and its derivatives don’t work so well with his species. He counts out the bottles. He’s planning on putting it all away and only taking it out a month at a time. It’ll be easier to track that way. He’s down to the last few bottles when he frowns. The numbers don’t quite make sense. There’s a brief moment of panic, when he’s afraid he’s managed to lose some important cognitive function without realizing it. He counts the bottles again and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds there’s one extra. It’s odd considering how well Nick thought out this entire thing. Phil frowns and goes and mentally crosses off the possibilities.

It takes him a few minutes to catch that one of the labels is different. The bottle is the same shape and size as the rest and the label even calls it vicodin, but the pills inside are different. Phil studies them for a long minute before blinking in recognition. It’s one of the sleeping pill / pain killer mixtures SHIELD was experimenting with a few years back. They got shelved because it was too easy for someone delirious with injury to overdose. 

Phil was in charge of the investigation. The whole incident had been a mess. He had nightmares about various pieces of it for months. Just days after he closed the inquiry, an agent got his hands on the some of the leftover storage (SHIELD never throws anything away). His suicide was discovered mere hours after Phil filed the final report. Even years later, Phil remembers what those pills looked like. He’d stared at photos of them for what seemed like weeks on end.

Phil swallows a quiet sob. Nick gave him both options. No judgment, no recriminations. No instructions. If Phil decides to use these, he only needs a handful of the pills, but he can flush the rest before doing… it. The idea has fluttered through his mind a handful of times in the last six months, and he’s always flinched away from it. He packs the bottle away, unable to truly rule it out so early in the process.

**Six Months + Three Weeks**

Clint’s visit leaves him reeling. Somehow, it never occurred to Phil that Clint might try to extend their friendship past work. In the first week he got a handful of phone calls and emails lamenting Phil’s brand-new ability to sleep without an alarm clock, but SHIELD agents are busy and it’s hard to maintain relationships outside of the agency, even with someone like Phil, who knows the business. The schedule, the security clearances, and Phil’s personal isolation (on purpose) doesn’t make keeping friendships easy. He doesn’t feel bad when even his closest friends drop out almost completely fairly quickly. Phil knows what he’s doing.

So Clint’s appearance floors him. It floors Clint as well, which is good because it takes a while for Phil to recover. Phil avoids actively explaining anything -- it was hard enough telling Nick and allowing Natasha inside of the secret, even though she’d figured it out on her own. With Clint, the very idea of bringing him in to this part of his life nearly physically hurts.

“It’s my choice,” Phil says, feeling anything but brave. He feels like a coward -- hell, he is one. He imagines there will be a lot of angry faces at his funeral.

Clint seems to digest that, nodding when he realizes that Phil gets to choose how he says goodbye, and Phil thinks he might get out of this without hurting himself too much. Then Clint reaches out. At first its just his hand, but it’s like water over desert-dry lips and Phil has just enough time to get used to it when Clint hugs him. He can’t stop the noise that escapes his mouth as Clint wraps himself around Phil. It feels so good he just wants to bury himself in Clint’s scent. The warmth of his embrace seems to seep directly into Phil’s body and he has to stop himself from soaking it up until he’s drunk on it.

Phil is the one to break up the hug by needing to sit down. He doesn’t know what he intends to do, but after his belly is full (fuller than it’s felt in a while; Clint’s mere presence seems to fill him up), he falls deeply asleep on the couch next to Clint. He’s forgotten what deep, dreamless sleep feels like. It takes him forever to wake up completely when Clint gently shakes him.

No matter how much he knows he should discourage it, he doesn’t stop Clint from assigning himself visiting hours. He tells Natasha all about it, unsure exactly what he wants her to do. He’s not rational when it comes to Clint and neither is his body.

Natasha turns out to be very little help. Phil isn’t really surprised.

**Six Months + Five Weeks**

Phil starts to worry that he’s accidentally feeding off Clint’s close proximity. His incubus nature will resist starvation with everything it has.

**Six Months + Seven and Nine Weeks**

Clint’s request to move in horrifies Phil. It’s confirmation of everything he’s been afraid of. His body is trying to protect itself and Clint is what it needs and god this is almost as bad as mind control. It’s not plucking at already-there strings of sexual attraction -- this is manipulating emotions. It’s terrible, and he feels sick to his stomach. He manages to gently reject Clint. It may be artificial emotion, but it still feels real to Clint, and Phil has already hurt him so much.

Even through that, Phil can’t bring himself to ask Clint to stop coming.

When Natasha sends him a message, hours before Clint’s own, that he’ll be missing one of the visits, there’s a small tingle of relief. Phil has been watching as Clint holds himself back and the pain in his eyes grows a little bit each time. It’s not until hours after Clint would usually have shown up that it dawns on Phil just how much he’s been hanging on, waiting for Clint’s visits. It’s startling how much worse he feels the next morning. He has only a handful of days to get used to his new normal when Clint rings the bell.

Clint’s “I love you” and his explanation are like a body blow. It makes him realize just how unfair he’s being. Letting Clint visit, passively feeding off his presence, slowly luring his brain into a receptive position, it’s all so wrong. Phil lets himself be selfish one last time. He kisses Clint until their tears mingle and Phil’s body feels just a bit better. He clings to Clint during the movie, takes enough to stay awake through the whole evening. He’s been starving himself for so long that it makes him a little lightheaded to be fed.

At the end of the evening, he says goodbye and kisses Clint again. The impulse to comfort Phil at the end of his life is pure Clint, Phil knows that much, but the how, that’s all Phil’s influence. When he’s gone, Phil reaches for the phone and dials a number he hasn’t used in weeks.

“What do you need?” Nick’s voice has an immediacy to it that Phil has always appreciated. For someone who’s always planning twenty steps ahead, Nick Fury always felt especially present to Phil.

“I need you to send Barton away.” Phil’s voice cracks as he says it. “Please.”

The silence between them is thick, but Nick doesn’t ask any of the questions Phil knows he wants to ask. “How long?”

“Four or five weeks should do.”

“He’ll figure out it was you.”

“Yeah,” Phil whispers. “Probably. When his mind clears enough, lots of things will become obvious.”

“Are you sure that—”

“Yes,” Phil remains firm. Married and a string of ex-girlfriends is enough for Phil, even without his incubus senses. Phil’s not about to confuse wishful thinking for attraction, not matter how badly he wants to. He didn't do it while he was working with Clint and he won't do it now. Or if he is, if he’s really that far gone and he can no longer control the Lure to that extent, then he needs to stop it. Now.

“Alright, four or five weeks,” Nick finally says. “I’ll get it done.”

Phil ends the call and closes his eyes tightly. Self-hatred wells up inside, leaking out in bitter tears.

**Six Months + Twelve Weeks**

It’s hard. Harder than he’d thought it might be. Not only does his body finally start to fail at a steady rate, but he misses Clint. A lot. It’s not just the physical closeness, which is almost as important to an incubus as the actual sex, but the mental stimulation.

Clint calls him a few times, but the nature of the mission gives him an erratic schedule. It doesn’t stop them from talking as long as possible the few times they do connect.

It prompts Phil to bring up an old piece of software. He writes seventy-five check in emails. They’re all three sentences or less and total no more than one thousand words and still he’s exhausted by the time he’s done, mentally and physically. He programs the machine to send out one a day, at a random time between 9:47am and 11:23am, his current approximate wakeup times. It’ll keep Clint away in those last days when Phil might not do a lot more than sleep. His finger hovers over the Enter key. If he does this, not only will he be giving up the last of his options and admitting fully the inevitable, but when Clint figures it out, he will probably hate him even more.

The click of the key depressing echoes loudly in his ears.

Things start to get a bit blurry not long after that. Phil has to change his TV habits to shorter programs with less continuous plot. He’s always been fond enough of terrible reality TV, so it’s not a huge loss, but even some of those have started to be too complex for him.

He thinks about the pills still hidden in his cabinet. He should make a decision at some point, get rid of what he doesn’t want or need, be it the whole bottle or just part of it. In the end, he flushes everything but five pills down the toilet. He hides the rest in his bedside table and wonders if he’ll have the guts or even the ability to use them.

He hears Clint’s voice in his dreams sometimes. There’s a period of a few days where waking up is a painful reminder that Clint isn’t there. He does begin to think that it would be nice to hear “I love you” in his the last moments. Natasha’s schedule has only gotten busier since Phil retired and Phil has finally switched to IV nutrition completely. So no more generic interactions with the delivery people either. He’s been completely alone for over a week.

Phil sleeps more than anything else now. It’s only because he’s already up and moving, grabbing a few essentials to bring to his bedroom that he even considers answering the doorbell when it rings.

“Phil?” Clint’s voice carries to his ears before Phil even realizes that’s who’s at the door. “Oh, my god, Phil.”

Without preamble an arm wraps around him and escorts him to the nearest chair and follows him down so that Clint’s kneeling in front of Phil between his haphazardly splayed knees.

“Oh, god, I knew you weren’t going to be honest, but oh my god.” Clint’s fingers are touching him, stroking against his dry skin, holding him steady, the heat of them leaking through Phil’s shirt and pants. He feels warm, a good warm. For the first time in a while, he warms from the inside out. It’s all he can do to resist draping himself over that perfect, amazing heat.

“I don’t understand.” Phil shakes his head. Every thought feels muffled in cotton. “It should have been long enough.”

“You should be in bed,” Clint talks over him, head craning to take in the entire apartment. “That’s where you’ve been living right? The bedroom?”

“I don’t— Clint,” Phil blinks slowly, “it should have been long enough. Why are you here?”

Clint cuts off a sob and presses a gentle kiss into Phil’s forehead. He smells of gunpowder and sweat and all Phil wants to do is bury himself in that smell and never come out. 

“Six weeks,” Clint murmurs. “Six weeks and I was so afraid that you—” He cuts himself off and worms his way further between Phil’s knees so that he can give Phil a full body hug while still kneeling on the floor.

As Phil slowly absorbs the emotion bleeding from Clint like water through a sieve he slowly finishes making the connections. “No, no, Clint, you were supposed to be free of The Lure. I can’t do this to you anymore.”

Clint’s shushing stops abruptly. “Phil, what are you talking about?”

“I can’t control it anymore,” Phil whispers, “and I can’t stand the idea that I’m subconsciously controlling you. It’s… abhorrent.”

Clint leans back to look Phil in the eye. “The Lure.” It’s not a question and there’s cautious hope in his eyes. “Are you… Phil, are you having delusions or are you… Are you?” He doesn’t completely ask the question before leaning in to kiss Phil. 

It’s hard and demanding and it sets fire to Phil’s mouth and it spreads until the grayness of his head recedes back to the bare minimum. Phil has no choice but to participate -- his body won’t let him choose not to -- so he groans and lets Clint inside, the kiss going dirty and deep but somehow still loving. So loving.

They’re both panting when they break apart. Clint leans back enough to examine Phil’s face. The newly found clarity must be easy to spot. “That’s why you got so much worse when I didn’t visit you regularly. For god’s sake, Phil, you think a circus desperate enough to take on two stray boys under fourteen without asking too many questions, who had no trouble with the fact that there was no adult to speak of, or even basic CPS paperwork, didn’t have a few other refugees hanging around? The bearded lady was an elf, the juggling act a family of selkies, and the trapeze act a succubus, her husband, and their two children.”

Phil blinks, suddenly ashamed. “Then you know I’ve been manipulating you.”

“The mom sang to me when I was homesick,” Clint says softly, brushing Phil’s slightly too-long hair out of his eyes. His fingertips are so gentle. “I had the Ballad of a Wanderer memorized by ten years old.”

Phil did too. He remembers the songs his mom used to sing to him. His people have a long tradition of oral histories, because they were too afraid to write anything down. The long, lilting stories of ancient incubi and succubi were endlessly fascinating. Every year his mom would trot out a new one, because his body and mind were slowly coming into maturity and there was always more to learn.

“What are you so afraid of?” Clint finally asks, his hands cupping Phil’s face, stroking gently. It feels so good.

“That I’m controlling you.” Phil shuts his eyes. He can’t have this conversation while looking at Clint. “That I’ve brainwashed you into believing you loved me until you were trapped inside a relationship that you never wanted.”

Clint kisses him softly. “Phil, think about it. Even if you don’t believe me when I tell you I’ve loved you for years, your Lure should have worn off by week three. I promise you, that didn’t happen.”

“Years?” Phil blinks, his hands reaching unsteadily for Clint’s face. “I don’t— I don’t understand. You were— you’ve never… _ever_ , there was nothing! And I know sexual attraction. I can spot it miles away.”

“I was so scared at first,” Clint says, running a hand over as much of Phil as he can reach. Now that he knows what’s wrong, it’s like he’s trying his best to feed Phil up with what options he has. “I’m not saying I got married because of you, that’s unfair to both me and Bobbi, but I definitely started dating her because I was running hard.”

“That long?” Phil asks, wonder lacing his voice. Maybe he looked once or twice, early on. He can’t remember and he’s not thinking so clearly at the moment. Maybe he convinced himself to stop looking a long time ago. Clint starts pressing tiny, soft kisses into his hairline and Phil blinks back into the present. He feels a thousand times better, but he’s still so far behind normal that it feels like his brain is taking too long to process everything.

“Yeah,” Clint nods, kissing his lips again. “I never could bring myself to date a man after I figured out how I felt. I knew that would probably work against me if you ever started actually looking.”

He’s a mess of emotions and Clint’s active feeding makes everything a little wobbily. His body isn’t used to this much energy, this much food that’s actually nutritious, in its own way. “Let me get this straight,” Phil says slowly. “You love me.” Clint nods. “You’ve loved me for years.” Clint nods. “You’ve loved me with the same amount of intensity despite weeks- and the occasional months-long separation?”

“More.” Clint smiles shyly. “I really missed you sometimes.”

Phil nods, his heart beating hard. He can’t believe what’s happening. “And you understand what it means to be with me?”

“It’s not much different than two humans, I know that much.” Clint pulls back from where he’s been examining Phil’s cheekbones with his lips to look him in the eye. “And that there might be life or death situations where you might be forced to… break vows.”

Phil nods. It shakes loose the first few tears.

“Come here.” Clint doesn’t even wait, he just gathers Phil close again and hugs him hard. “For the record, I am _so_ mad at you.” He presses another gentle kiss to Phil’s forehead and temple. “Let’s get you better and promise never to send me away again, yes I know that was you,” he cuts off Phil’s comment, “and we’ll talk about the rest of it later. But I promise I understand the peculiarities fairly well.”

“Okay,” Phil agrees because it’s almost too much, it’s everything he’s ever wanted and it seems too easy.

“ _Now_ can I move in with you?” He’s smiling as he asks it and Phil nods dumbly.

Clint helps him up and back into bed. He climbs in beside Phil and continues to kiss him thoroughly for a solid twenty minutes. It takes a while for Phil to coordinate his lips in return. His kissing is rusty as hell, but Clint doesn’t seem to mind as he groans into Phil’s mouth and tugs his body even closer, hooking a leg over his hip. Just as Phil starts to drift, Clint eases off with a handful of softer kisses. Whispering that there are chores to do, but he’ll be back as soon as possible, Clint slips away. Phil almost immediately drops off into the most restful sleep he’s had in weeks and only wakes up when Clint, clad in some of Phil’s soft pajamas, crawls back in next to him and arranges Phil inside the circle of his arms.


	5. Epilogue

**\+ One Month**

Phil’s recovery is slower than one might guess for a supernatural being that feeds off love (sex too, but his body has changed completely into one that loves Clint Barton enough to not need sex in the same way). Phil has let himself wind almost down to the bone and Clint refuses to overtax him in any way. Phil admits that sex wouldn’t actually be a quick solution, but it sure would be fun.

Clint spends a month indulging in his most lurid caretaker fantasies, most of which are apparently incredibly chaste, a fact that is slowly driving Phil only slightly insane, but in the best of ways.

Nick visits them soon after Clint calls in for personal time and fills out the form with a “however the fuck long it takes for Phil to recover from being an idiot” in the Duration line. He valiantly holds off from telling Phil “I told you so” but Phil knows he’s just saving it for the perfect occasion.

Natasha visits a few days later and hugs him so tightly he has bruises, but he doesn’t complain. When she lets go, Clint scoops her up and hugs her just as hard. Phil just about makes out a muffled “thank you” as he spins her around the living room.

Clint barely leaves his side in that first month. They share clothes along with everything else. Eventually Phil sighs and calls Natasha for a favor. Clint’s things appear in a large pile the next morning. Phil curls up on the sofa, a warm mug of soup on his hand and blanket around his shoulders, and watches with a smile on his face as Clint puts his stuff away in various nooks and corners.

Phil is smiling a lot these days.

**\+ Two Months**

Phil puts a suit on for the first time in months. It feels good and it helps that it doesn’t actually hang off him like a tent. He even digs out his retirement gift. Clint’s smile cracks around the edges as Phil carefully puts on his cuff links, tie clip, and watch. He’s gained back some weight, but he’ll have to actually exercise to get back some of the muscle. Well, exercise and have sex, but now that it’s a sure thing, neither of them are in a hurry. Phil understands something his mother used to say: “Love can sustain us forever.” He used to think it was a hokey metaphor, but now he understands it’s more than that. So much more.

Clint hovers within inches of him the whole time they’re outdoors. Phil just takes a deep breath and savors the fresh air alongside Clint’s absolutely endearing impression of a helicopter. Clint is dressed up next to him. Black pants and a jewel-toned shirt would be plenty, but the black leather jacket encasing it all just makes it all the better.

A taxi takes them twenty minutes away from their (that pronoun switch still makes him feel tingly) apartment. Clint has spent days researching on his laptop trying to find the perfect place for their date. The restaurant is quiet but relatively full, and they’re seated in a comfortable corner with a table that has two flickering candles. The lighting is well hidden enough that it looks like the only illumination is candlelight, but it’s still bright enough to read small letters with low contrast on the menu.

Phil’s appetite has blossomed and he’s been shoveling down calories as fast as he can digest them. His body needs all forms of energy to get back into shape. They order an appetizer platter meant for two, which Phil mostly demolishes on his own. Clint watches with an amused expression in between sips of a soup that smells so good it still tickles Phil’s nostrils over his own food.

As soon as Phil pushes the remnants of his main course away, Clint stands and offers his hand. Phil raises an eyebrow but allows himself to be led into the center of a dance floor. Couples have been slowly weaving their way to the wooden platform for a half hour or so. It’s situated out of the main flow of traffic so that new patrons and the waitstaff don’t trip over the dancers.

They slow dance with their temples pressed together and Clint hums along with the tune and the vibrations inspire sympathetic humming in Phil. They avoid the faster dances. Phil still only has so much energy to spare. As it is he’ll probably sleep a solid fifteen hours tonight. There’s a dessert break -- a hot brownie and cold ice cream topped with hot fudge and warm caramel. As his body slowly failed, his taste buds had slid down a path of illness without Phil even realizing. His first bite of homemade food (Clint can follow cooking directions if Phil talks him through it from the living room) had been a revelation.

The sounds they both make while eating the brownie concoction are just shy of pornographic, but it’s an amazing combination of sweet and salty, hot and cold. By the time they finish it off, the music has slowed down significantly. They share another couple of dances before Phil finds himself swallowing a huge yawn. Clint chuckles and kisses his nose when he’s done.

“Ready to go home and collapse into a food coma?” Clint’s words are warm puffs of air against Phil’s face.

“Hmm,” Phil says. “Home yes, coma might wait a little while.”

Clint’s hand takes a slow run down Phil’s back. It’s warm and perfect and leaves tiny shivers of sensation in its wake. “Yeah?” he murmurs into Phil’s ear.

Phil lets their noses bump and then rub. “Yeah, maybe something easy.” He wants Clint so badly, but he knows his energy and stamina aren’t up for all the things Phil really wants. But maybe… nice easy hand jobs would be okay.

“Oh,” Clint shivers. “I felt that.”

There are some aspects of incubus partners that Phil always thought were more fairy tale than fact. Ballads are notoriously overly romantic and sentimental. Except, it turns out, not so much.

Phil practically floats back to their table and sips at the remnants of his water. Clint had laid down the law: if Phil wanted this date then he had to really embrace the dating philosophy of participation only. Clint wanted to be in charge of all the details and wanted Phil to avoid any and all types of worry. It’s surprisingly easy to float in the sea of endorphins Clint creates in his body. He’s full of delicious food and buzzing from the dancing. 

It’s easy to drift, even ceding his situational awareness to Clint, trusting that he’ll protect Phil if something happens. Phil is sure there’s a dopey smile on his face when Clint grabs his attention again, mostly because Clint’s mouth twitches up in that way it’s been doing since Phil recovered enough to stop making Clint’s eyes go tight with worry whenever he tried to do anything.

Phil manages to hold off on his impulses until their door is closed to the outside world. Then he crowds Clint into the nearest wall and presses their lips together. Clint moans and opens his mouth easy and the kiss goes languid and lush and everything Phil could ever want out of a kiss. They’re panting when they separate and Phil touches their temples together.

“This is the longest I’ve ever gone without,” Phil says in a low voice, “and having sex now means I get to have it with you and that’s the most amazing thing in the world.”

Clint groans and kisses him again. “I’ve been making lists.” Another kiss. “Really inventive lists.” He nips Phil’s bottom lip and moves to suck on the skin under his ear. “With question marks, because come on, you’re a sex demon. Sex. Demon.”

“That’s sex positive, alternate humanoid thank you very much,” Phil says primly, his eyes closing at the sensation of heat and suction against his skin. “And I’ve been making lists too.”

Clint peels away, gives him a lascivious grin and then gently tugs Phil through the apartment and into the bedroom. Phil desperately wants to try something more athletic, but he knows his limits and as much as this will jump start the rest of his recovery, he also knows this isn’t as easy as a pick-me-up quickie, like he used to call them.

It’s a new thing: not just letting someone else take charge, but to not have to control the pull at all. Clint is willing and Phil doesn’t feel the need to enhance the experience artificially. Oh, they’ll experiment with his aura and lure, with the ways he can create a feedback loop of pleasure until they’re both wrung out and satiated. For now, though, he’s more than happy to try it undoctored.

In fact, he’s looking forward to it.

Phil gets lost in kisses until he realizes the heat of Clint’s hand is directly on his skin. Its been years since he could get lost in such a simple gesture as kissing. Phil’s hands have been working by rote, unbuttoning Clint’s shirt, tugging and pulling until they’re skin to skin. The sensation nearly buckles his knees.

“Hey now,” Clint holds him close, “none of that.”

“I feel like a teenager.” Phil laughs. “Let me go, I promise I’ll crawl right into bed.” The heat coalescing on Phil’s hip twitches nicely.

Clint helps him in with capable hands and dark eyes. Phil watches Clint follow him, the innate grace a ridiculous turn on.

“Next time,” Clint whispers as he gathers Phil close, “I want to explore every inch of you and then maybe slick you up and slide in so slow we both go a little crazy.”

“Yeah,” Phil rasps. “Yeah, that sounds like fun.” 

They kiss and kiss some more. Distantly Phil can feel his leg being lifted and placed on top of Clint’s hip. When Clint’s wide hand wraps around his cock, he whimpers into Clint’s mouth. “Fuck, that’s good,” he almost whines. Phil fumbles a hand between them, the backs of his fingers finding hot, soft skin. Clint keens into his mouth and his hips twitch hopefully. “Found you,” Phil says with a goofy smile before his eyes roll back as Clint gives him a long, firm stroke.

“Oh, god.” Phil loses his train of thought. “This isn’t going to be my finest performance.”

“Shush.” Clint kisses him, his tongue mimicking his hand. “Too many words.”

Phil’s balls are already so tight that when Clint takes a quick detour down the base of his cock to press lightly at them, Phil shudders, hips jerking. “So close.”

“I can feel it,” Clint says breathlessly. “God, that’s amazing.”

Phil’s skin tingles. It starts at his toes and flushes all the way to the top of his head. Clint pumps his hand a half dozen more times when Phil starts to come. “Don’t stop,” he gasps as that last slide upward before his body rolls over into orgasm keeps going until he’s strung like a bowstring. Finally, his cock spurts, his entire body shuddering helplessly. It goes on and on, Clint’s hand drawing it out until he’s nothing but a weak noodle.

Clint makes a high-pitched noise and Phil uses the last of his arm’s strength to roll Clint over into his embrace, his hot, leaking cock pressing into Phil’s thigh. “Your turn,” Phil slurs.

Clint buries his face in Phil’s shoulder and lets his hips roll in short, sharp thrusts until he freezes in Phil’s arms and comes, finally melting back into the bed. “Holy fuck,” Clint whispers eventually around a yawn that doesn’t seem to end.

Something inside of Phil feels full that hasn’t felt full in so long. There’s even a phantom urge to burp. Clint eventually finds the energy to wipe them both down. He stands just long enough to tug the covers out from under Phil’s sated body and then he crawls in with him and snuggles in close.

Phil curls around him and yawns. “Just think,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” Clint sympathy yawns as he finds his comfortable spot on Phil’s shoulder.

“We haven’t even made it to blowjobs.”

Clint’s snicker follows him down into the most satisfying sleep he’s had in his entire life.

 

**\+ Four Months**

Phil is feeling no pain. Round four has left him sweaty and sated and high as a fucking kite. Next to him, Clint is waving an improvised white flag made up of a stray undershirt.

“Holy shit,” Clint gasps, reaching for the water. Phil had prepped for this in numerous ways. Ending a Sex Marathon with dehydration sucks for everyone. “I can’t feel my legs,” Clint says between long sips. “And most of my arms.” He nearly misses the nightstand when putting the bottle back.

Phil is trying to hold back the giggles that are slowly expanding inside his chest but damnit, he feels _so good_.

“Are you glowing?” Clint mumbles from his side. “Because that’s just not fair.”

Phil looks down at his skin. It does look a bit bright and incandescent, but that just might the four rounds of sex and the six orgasms. His strength is coming back, but the stamina seems to be taking its time. He’d left multiples behind with his late twenties. Even for incubi, six in one session is a lot. Fully matured, Phil had traded in quantity for quality with a side order of longevity.

“Possibly.” Phil shrugs, waving his hand slowly across his vision. “Ooh, trails.” Or maybe he’s just really, sickeningly, in love.

Clint’s head pops up onto his chest, his chin resting just below Phil’s breastbone. “You are totally blitzed,” he says, poking Phil with a limp finger. “I bet you couldn’t even walk in a straight line.”

Phil snorts, “I’m not sure I could walk in a crooked line.” His legs are basically jelly and it’s a sensation he’s sorely missed. They’re both splayed out on the bed, which has managed to retain the fitted sheet, barely, but otherwise is stripped bare. Phil is using the only pillow left on the bed and if they want to use any of the ones that landed on the floor, they probably need to change the case first. Some of those positions had needed shoring up.

Clint curls up even further around Phil and he feels like a warm, electric purr against his side. In some ways, Clint’s presence has expanded inside of Phil’s senses, like he’s grown into another dimension of senses. Eyes closed and ears muffled, Phil is sure he’d still be able to find Clint as long as he’s within a certain radius.

“Mmmnice,” Clint rumbles as Phil’s hand strokes down his back. “Nap time?”

It’s said with such hopeful exhaustion that Phil would be hard pressed to say no even if he wasn’t ready to sit and bask for a couple of hours. “Blanket?” he asks, pointing his eyebrows in the direction he thinks it was flung.

Clint makes a show of attempting to push up onto his knees but flops barely a few inches from the bed. “Unf. Orgasm limbs. Can’t make it. Go on without me.” He punctuates the pronouncement with a whine and pout.

Phil has no choice, absolutely none, but to kiss that pout. Clint makes a pleased noise and breaks off the soft kiss before it can go too far. Not that Phil was really trying to get it to go anywhere. He’s found a new love for kisses, all types of them, short, long, soft, hard, subtle, simple, complex, wet, deep; as long as they’re with Clint, they’re the most amazing thing in the world. They remind Phil of sex before Clint -- the same satisfied and full feeling can come just from spending long hours pressing their lips together.

“Mmm,” Clint says into his lips before his entire face cracks open for a yawn. “Nice,” another quick peck, “but there’s no way we’re going for a fifth time.” They kiss a few more times before Clint pulls away again. “Okay fine, but if I fall asleep, just keep going.”

Phil laughs but gently begins to pry Clint off his side, Clint doesn’t help at all, just remains flopped right where he is. Phil doesn’t blame him. Even he would turn down sex if offered right now. Eventually he escapes Octopus Clint and gets to his feet, wobbling unexpectedly. Sex legs -- he’s seen his partners get them, but never quite experienced them himself. Also his head feels a bit like a helium balloon. It’s going to take a while to get used to the chemical reactions that Clint incites in him.

He hobbles just far enough to get a damp cloth. He almost overbalances when he bends to grab the blanket and all he wants to do is giggle about it. He’s just so fucking happy. It’s kind of sickening. On the bed, Clint snorts and wiggles deeper into the sheet and the pillow Phil left behind. He has to fight the urge to crawl back back into bed by way of Clint’s body, meandering a slow path of kisses up his back, enjoying the smooth skin and muscle.

“I know it’s mesmerizing,” Clint mummbles, wiggling his ass at Phil, “but if you get hard again I’m leaving you.”

Phil shivers through a sense memory of licking up the curve of Clint’s perfectly rounded and muscled ass, kissing and nibbling occasionally. His cock shivers, valiantly tries to get hard but mostly twitches pathetically against his thigh.

Clint’s muffled snickers reach his ears. “You’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No?” Phil says, laughing and not trying very hard to make it convincing, mostly because Clint’s mock-betrayed voice is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Well, right now, everything is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Clint’s wiggles leave colorful outline traces, blurring his lines into something that Phil just wants to run his fingertips down.

He almost dives back in when his jaw nearly dislocates from his skull with a huge yawn. Instead he drapes the blanket across Clint’s shins and then takes a seat, scooting in close. “C’mere,” he murmurs quietly, his buzz keeping him mellow and uncaring of the thousand little things he should probably be caring about. Because that’s the guy he usually is, with a running to-do list in his mind. Clint helps shut that part of him off so easily, when he most needs it. It’s a… relief in some ways.

“Coooold,” Clint complains after the first stroke of damp cloth, but he moves when Phil asks him to and eventually makes a “gimme” motion for the washcloth. Phil finds himself deftly but carefully poked and prodded until he’s lying down on his back. Clint folds the washcloth into an opposite set of folds from when Phil held it and wipes Phil’s body down in long, slightly wobbily strokes. The damp cloth gets thrown over Clint’s shoulder -- there’s a distant splat and rattle and Phil wonders what exactly Clint was aiming for, but he lets it go in favor of Clint melting back into his embrace, pulling the blanket up with him.

 

**\+ Five Months**

“So,” Clint says, drawing out the single syllable as he slides down onto the couch beside Phil, a soda in one hand and a pile of paper plates and plasticware in the other, “when do we have that awkward talk about work?”

Phil's been expecting that conversation for a while. The last week has seen him finally hitting his stride, easily accomplishing high-energy tasks without even thinking about needing a break or a nap or some recovery time. His clothes from before all of this started to happen, a little over a year ago now, all fit without weird pulls or flops again. His perfectly tailored suits slide on like a glove.

“Honestly?” Phil isn’t specifically hiding his financial situation from Clint, but over the decades he’s learned that money can make people funny. He’s gotten used to just talking around it. “Technically, I’m still on the payroll as a full-time consultant. I just assumed Nick is waiting for the most annoying potential mission he can find to punish me with when he ‘does me the favor’,” Phil makes over-exaggerated air quotes, “of offering me my job back. It's how he shows he cares.”

“Even if he strings me along for a while, money won’t really be an issue for some time.” Phil shrugs carefully. Now that he’s not factoring in medical expenses, as well as costly living arrangements such as delivery three meals a day, he could live fairly well for a while. “Even with just my pension, bills won’t really be something to worry about any time soon.”

There’s a knack for working out what’s most likely going to be worth money some years later. Pre-Antique shopping his mom had called it. And once you’ve got enough cash saved, you can wait a bit longer to be sure and spend a bit more on the initial investment for a better chance at a good return. 

Phil’s early money came from Captain America merch. For a while, during his childhood, it would have been easier to list out the toys that didn’t have Cap’s face on them. His mother was sceptical, but her knowledge was based in precious metals and gems. His dad thought it was a good guess and offered to front the money to help Phil begin his own collection. He's still got a warehouse full of investments. He'd intended for Clint to inherit it and decide what to do with them. Clint would appreciate the concept of savings in multiple hidey holes.

"Sounds like Fury, " Clint nods. "But... isn't your job basically gone?"

"Eh..." Phil wiggles his head in an approximation of 'ish'. "Technically Natasha and Melinda are only in holding patterns for Maria Hill. I could take those back and give Hill a little more breathing room for her promotion. And by then I'm sure we'd find something else for me to do." More like Nick will saddle him with some super secret plan he's been covertly assembling for years and vaguely hinting at Phil for at least half that time, like he had originally planned. In the initial meeting where Phil asked to take his twenty years, Fury hinted at needing to reshape several operations. It's good to feel needed sometimes, even when he was facing the end of his life.

Eventually Clint can no longer put off needing to work. Phil hasn't needed taking care of, in any other context than sex, for weeks, and Clint is starting to chafe from inactivity. For fun and because somehow making Clint laugh uncontrollably is Phil's newest addiction, after kissing Clint, and maybe being naked with Clint, Phil puts together a bagged lunch and waits at the door in a frilly apron to kiss Clint goodbye.

"Have a good day at work dear," he says primly, offering up a perfectly folded brown bag.

Clint blinks at him, stunned, before falling against the door and laughing himself sick. "You asshole. I love you." 

“You love me for my body,” Phil dramatically sighs, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I knew it.” He sniffs dramatically.

Clint’s knees buckle he’s laughing so hard. By the time he looks up at Phil, with tears in his eyes, Phil has assumed an air of nonchalance while staring patiently at his watch. It’s usually how he looks when baby agents make it back from their first field assignment, minus the frilly apron. That sets Clint off on another round of giggles. Eventually Clint practically crawls out of the apartment, giving Phil the middle finger on his way out. Phil’s smile lingers for hours.

It’s still lingering a few hours later when his doorbell rings. He turns the heat down on the pot with the simmering stew and goes to open the door.

“Well,” he says, “this must be important. You didn’t just break in like normal.”

Nick glares at him. “Yeah, well, the little old lady I rode up with in the elevator was deeply unhappy with my personal clothing choices, so you better appreciate the courtesy.”

“Always do.” Phil smiles brightly, partially because it’s always unnerved Nick and partially because he is genuinely happy to be seeing him again, trading quips. It’s something he thought he’d given up and said goodbye to not too long ago. “Come on, soup’s on.”

Nick gives him a suspicious one-eyed glare.

Phil gives them each one and a half ladles of stew, a large chunk of crusty bread, and a cold beer. Off of Nick’s “Well aren’t you prepared?” look, Phil just smiles serenely and says, “You’re a little predictable sometimes.” 

Nick takes a careful bite of stew, tastes it thoroughly before swallowing, and then nods in appreciation. “Scurrilous lies.” He points a finger at Phil, but not for long, because he needs that hand for the bread.

Phil waits until they’ve finished their meal, because it’s not something he ever thought would happen again and these days he’s savoring those moments when he can. They both clean up the table, bringing the dishes into the kitchen. Nick leans casually against the counter as Phil puts the dishes in the dishwasher and even holds the tupperware containers as Phil pours the pot into four containers, two for the freezer, two for the fridge.

Phil grabs two more beers before heading out to the living room, Nick trailing behind him. They settle, Phil on the sofa, Nick on the big plush chair off to the side. They open their second bottles of beer and take long pulls.

“Okay,” Phil says, bracing himself, “hit me with it. What terrible, annoying, complex, piece of shit of a mission do you have for me to make up for retiring early, causing you no end of mess, and then almost dying?”

Nick takes another long pull from his beer, ending it with a whoosh of satisfied air. “Actually,” Nick says, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, wicked smile lighting his face, “I’d like to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative.”

Phil stares at him. “Huh.”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> 1\. Coulson consciously makes a decision that will end his life. He feels he has no choice in the matter, but it's not stepping in front of a bullet. It's the equivalent of a slow, deadly illness.
> 
> 2\. Fury provides him with the means to quickly and painlessly end his life whenever he chooses, so that he's not stuck wasting away.
> 
> 3\. That being said, this story heavily deals with the subject matter of terminal illnesses and the kinds of decisions and emotions that come along with them. 
> 
> 4\. If you have any questions before reading, please feel free to comment and ask. Just note that it's a spoiler specific thread please.


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